Mile High Daddy: Chapter 14

A sharp ringing fills my ears as I blink my eyes open. Everything is hazy, my mind sluggish, my body aching as I struggle to make sense of where I am.

The dim glow of streetlights filters through shattered glass. The car is tilted at an odd angle, smoke curling from the crumpled hood. My breathing is uneven, my heart hammering wildly against my ribs.

Mikhail is still inside the car, but he’s no longer beside me. He’s in the front seat now, gun in hand, his posture tense, coiled—like a predator about to strike.

Across from us, Torres is slumped over, unconscious, blood trickling from his temple.

I try to sit up, wincing as a sharp pain shoots through my ribs. My voice is hoarse when I manage to speak. “Mikhail?”

His head snaps toward me, his gray eyes flashing. “Stay in the car,” he orders, his voice rough, dangerous.

“What’s going on?” I ask, my mind spinning, trying to grasp the situation.

“We were attacked,” he says, checking the magazine in his gun before flicking the safety off. “Stay down.”

Attacked.

The word sinks in slowly, cold and heavy in my chest.

I swallow hard, my fingers gripping the torn leather seat beneath me. “Who?”

Mikhail doesn’t answer right away. His jaw clenches, his gaze flicking to the side mirror, scanning the darkened street.

“Alexei,” he mutters darkly. “Or someone working for him.”

My stomach lurches. I don’t understand the full depth of Mikhail’s war, but I know the name Alexei. I’ve heard whispers. I’ve seen the tension in Mikhail’s shoulders every time Torres brings him up. Whoever this man is, he’s powerful enough to come for Mikhail directly.

Mikhail moves toward the door, his grip tightening on his gun. “Stay here,” he orders again. “Don’t move until I come back for you.”

Then he’s gone. The door slams behind him, and just like that, I’m alone.

Silence fills the car, broken only by the distant crackling of flames and the ringing in my ears. I exhale shakily, my pulse erratic, my thoughts scattered.

And then⁠—

My phone buzzes.

I look down, my breath catching as I see the screen light up.

A text from my mom:

Now’s your chance.

The words send a jolt of adrenaline through me. I stare at them, my hands trembling, my pulse thundering in my ears.

Now’s my chance.

To run.

To get out.

I glance through the shattered windshield, my gaze locking on Mikhail’s dark silhouette as he moves down the street, gun raised, his focus elsewhere.

I can feel it in my bones—this moment, right now, is the only window I’ll get.

My mother has a plan. She’s waiting for me.

I can do this.

But then I think about Mikhail’s voice, low and commanding, telling me to stay. I think about the way he shielded me when the car spun out of control, the way he put his body between me and danger. I think about the way he looked at me before everything exploded. The heat in his eyes. The fire between us.

I suck in a sharp breath.

Run, Lila. Now.

My pulse is a war drum in my ears. My breath is shallow, my chest tight, my whole body thrumming with the weight of a decision I can’t take back.

Now’s your chance.

I look at the text one last time, my fingers trembling, my mind screaming at me to move.

Because if I’m pregnant—if Mikhail has already left something of himself inside me—then this is my last chance.

Once Mikhail finds out, I’ll never get away.

I shove the phone into the folds of my dress, my heartbeat a frantic thing against my ribs. I move carefully, shifting toward the door, my muscles tense and ready.

Outside, Mikhail is gone, his focus on the threat lurking in the shadows. The men who pulled up behind us—his men—are stepping out of their vehicles, their attention fixed on their boss, their weapons drawn.

No one is looking at me.

No one sees me as I push the door open just enough to slip out, crouching low against the crumpled car.

I hold my breath. Wait.

The world around me is chaos. I can hear Mikhail barking orders in the distance, his voice cutting through the night like a blade. Shadows move between the cars, men positioning themselves, preparing for whatever comes next.

And me?

I’m nothing.

Just a woman in a silk dress, a ghost slipping between giants.

I press myself against the wrecked vehicle, my knees sinking into broken glass, but I don’t feel the sting. The adrenaline is too thick, my mind too sharp.

Run.

But not yet.

Not yet.

I inch forward, keeping low, moving between the cars as silently as I can. A man walks past me—one of Mikhail’s, gripping a rifle—and my heart stops, waiting for him to turn, to grab me, to pull me back.

He doesn’t.

His focus is ahead, on whatever enemy is lurking in the dark.

I keep moving.

One step. Another.

Almost there.

The edge of the street is just beyond the last car. If I can slip into the alley, disappear into the shadows, I can run.

I can escape.

I can be free.

My fingers tremble as I grip the side of the last car, preparing for the final dash.

And then⁠—

A voice.

Deep. Sharp. Filled with something dark.

“Lila.”

My body locks. The air leaves my lungs in a sharp gasp.

I turn—slowly, as if in a nightmare—my whole body ice-cold.

Mikhail is standing at the front of the wreckage, his gun at his side, his suit dusted with blood and smoke. His gray eyes burn like fire and steel.

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t even blink. He just watches me.

Like he’s already figured out exactly what I was about to do.

Like he knew I would try.

The night stretches between us, filled with the echoes of gunfire and distant shouts. But right here, in this moment, it’s just us.

Me.

And the man I just tried to run from.

And in his gaze, I see the promise of something I don’t know if I can survive.

“Don’t,” he warns, his voice low.

I swallow hard, my pulse hammering.

A gunshot rips through the night.

Mikhail curses, stumbling back, his hand flying to his side.

My breath catches.

He’s been shot.

For a moment, I’m frozen. My heart slams against my ribs as I watch him stagger, blood seeping through the fabric of his shirt. His men shout, chaos erupting as they move to cover him.

The assailant is already gone. Whoever fired the shot has disappeared into the night.

Mikhail’s men are getting closer. They’re focused on him, not me.

This is it.

I swallow hard, my pulse a frantic drum in my ears.

Run, Lila.

I take one last look at Mikhail—his face twisted in pain, his gun still clutched in his bloody hand.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper under my breath.

Then I turn and run.

I don’t think. I don’t hesitate.

I run.

My heels click against the pavement as I bolt toward the other end of the street. My dress is too tight, the silk clinging to my legs, making it harder to move. I grab the fabric and hike it up, tearing the hem as I sprint.

Behind me, I hear shouts. Someone yells my name.

I don’t stop.

I weave through the darkened streets, my lungs burning, my legs screaming for relief. A taxi speeds past. A group of people stand outside a bar, laughing, oblivious to the storm unraveling just a few blocks away.

I keep running.

Then, finally, I see it.

A bus. It’s old and slightly rusted, but the doors are still open, the last of the passengers climbing in. I push forward, nearly tripping over my own feet as I reach it. My hands slap against the side as I haul myself up the steps, gasping for breath. The driver barely spares me a glance as I throw a crumpled bill at him, my fingers shaking.

I don’t care where it’s going. I don’t ask.

Anywhere is better than here.

I stumble to a seat near the back, my hands gripping the edges as I collapse onto it. My whole body trembles, my pulse erratic, my lungs burning.

The doors hiss shut.

The bus rumbles forward, pulling away from the street, from the wreckage, from him.

I close my eyes, my chest heaving.

I did it.

I got away.